Don't Be Bleedin' Obvious
by Exceeds Expectations
Summary: "Ah, fuck off. You for real? Someone else's holdin' de bleedin' rifle. I don't like gettin' me hands durty." /AU in which Moriarty is not as suave as you know him to be, Sherlock is confused, and the English language is murdered. Irish chav!Moriarty. The Great Game end scene. For Nayla. I hope you're happy.


**A/N:** For my darling Nayla. The shit I write for you. Happy (slightly late) birthday, bby g.

I can give you list of problems with this (in fact, I will, but my internet is being shitty and I have written said list twice now and FFN has eaten it), so suffice to say this is kind of shit, but fuck you, it took ages. Also I love you.

To anyone else who has stumbled across this madness...I'm sorry for what you're about to witness.

* * *

The pool is empty and Sherlock's footsteps echo loudly as he walks.

And there is silence, too much silence, silence that presses on his ears until – until _John. _John, standing there, and something in Sherlock's chest is sinking because this is John, and how could he? The pain, the shock, it takes Sherlock by surprise; he's not used to trusting, not used to betrayal. And John is speaking, speaking – what is he saying? Listen, Sherlock, _listen_ –

"What...would you like me...to make him say...next?" he says robotically and it all makes sense – someone else there has to be someone else where are they – and John's oversized coat hangs open, frames the bombs strapped to his chest. A red light dances across his front, and Sherlock searches for the source, when, suddenly, _a voice._

"I gave ye me number," it says. "Tought ye'd ring me."

Jim stands there, "Jim from IT", wearing – is that – has he got a fucking _tracksuit _on? Yes, yes, he has, a raggedy pair of grey tracksuit bottoms and a grey hoodie, zipped right up to his chin.

"Well, well, well," it says. "Story, Sherlock?"

"Story?" Sherlock questions, stance defensive, walking slowly towards John.

"Yeah. Story? What's de craic, y'know?" Jim drawls. "Is da' a Bri'ish Army Brownin' L9A1 in yer pockeh, or are you just pleased teh see me?"

"Both," Sherock growls, preferring instead to focus on the part of this man's speech that isn't gibberish. He pulls the gun from his pocket and levels it with the man's eyes.

"Jim Moriarty. Heya!" he says. "Jim. Jim from de hospital?"

When Sherlock says nothing, he carries on speaking, walking slowly forwards in his dirty Nike runners.

"Ah jaysus, did I really make such a fleetin' impression? But then, I suppose, da' _was _the fuckin' point."

Sherlock just stares, studying this strange man, but from the corner of his eye he sees the sniper's laser linger over John's heart. He raises a questioning eye at Moriarty.

"Ah, fuck off. You for real? Someone else's holdin' de bleedin' rifle. I don't like gettin' me hands durty."

He reaches the edge of the pool and stops. "I gave ye a glimpse, Sherlock, just a fuckin' tiny glimpse of wha' I've goh goin' on ou' der in de big bad wurld. I'm a specialist, ye see...like you!"

Sherlock stares some more, utterly perplexed. "Sorry, I - what?" he asks.

"Ah, for fuck's sake, Sherlock, I tought you were supposed teh be de smart one, like," Moriarty says, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "Cop the fuck on, ye fuckin' eejit!"

"I just – what are you saying?" Sherlock says, feeling genuinely lost.

"Oh, Jesus Christ, don't tell me we're gonna do dis wi' anudder fuckin' – I'm Irish, right? I'm from fuckin' Dublin. Now stop bein' a fuckin' racist little shit and get de fuck back to me plans, I'm a – "

"Consulting Criminal," Sherlock says. "Yes, I got that."

"You – you did?" Moriarty asks, blinking in surprise. "Den wat de fuck were ye askin' for?"

Sherlock bites back his smile. "Your accent is – unusual."

Moriarty bristles slightly. "Listen to me, you lanky cunt," he hisses, "My accent is fuckin' deadly, right? Now be fuckin' scared, you fuck. I'm a Consultin' Criminal, ri'? No one ever gets to me, and no one ever fuckin' will."

"_I _did."

"You came de closest. Now yer in me fuckin' way."

"Thank you."

"Wasn't a compliment, ye sap."

"Yes, it was," Sherlock says.

"Yeah, alri', it was," Moriarty shrugs, "but de flirtin's over now, Sherlock. Daddy's had enough now, like."

He starts to walk forward again, walking with some kind of – some weird gangster limp? Sherlock isn't entirely sure what he's looking at.

"I've shown you wha' I can do. I get rid of all de people, all de little problems, even turty million quid just to get you teh come ou' n' play. So take dis as a friendly warnin', bud. Back de fuck off, ri'? Cunt.

But I did _love_ dis – this little game of ours. Playing Jim from IT. Playin' gay. Didja like the little touch wi' de underwear?"

Sherlock bristles. "People have died."

"Wha' de FUCK ELSE do you want them to FUCKIN' DO?" he roars, spittle flying from his lips, and Sherlock can see the crazy light up in his eyes.

"I _will_ stop you."

Moriarty chuckles lightly, once again the epitome of calm. "No, you won't."

Sherlock glances to John, his John, who is just standing there, feeling the tick on his chest, feeling powerless, voiceless. "Are you alright?" he asks.

"Gewan, Johnny boy," Moriarty says brightly. "Yer allowed talk now."

John glares at him and nods once. Sherlock admires his defiance. He pulls the memory stick from his pocket and offers it to Moriarty. "Take it."

"Wha'?" Moriarty asks. "Oh, dat shit. Yeah, de missile plans?" He takes the stick from Sherlock's hands, and brings it slowly to his mouth. He kisses it, mutters, "_Borin',_" and tosses it lamely into the pool. "I could've gotten dem anywhere."

Sherlock hears the splash, watches as the memory stick sinks and then – and then John is _on _Moriarty, one arm around his neck, the other around his chest, and he shouts, "Sherlock, run!"

"Ah, _jaysus,_" Moriarty laughs. "Very good, you cute little fucker!"

"If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up," John growls, and Sherlock feels slightly numb as he watches the scene unfold. John is – John is willing to die for him. He blinks.

"Ah, he's mad cute, isn't he?" Moriarty says sweetly, calmly. "I can see why ye like teh keep him around. He's fuckin' adorable. But then, people do get mad sentimental about der little fuckin' pets, don't dey?"

John growls, tightens his hold on Moriarty's body. "And der so bleedin' loyal. But oops!"

He shoots a grin at John and then looks towards Sherlock, where another sniper's laser settles right in the middle of his forehead. "You really fuckin' showed yer hand der, Doctor Watson."

He chuckles as John falls back, holding his hands up in surrender. He runs his hands over the front of his tracksuit indignantly, glances at Sherlock and says, "Adidas!"

Sherlock does not move, still holding the pistol aimed firmly at Moriarty's head.

"Je know what happens if ye don't leave me alone, Sherlock, to _you_?"Moriarty asks serenely.

"Oh, let me guess," Sherlock snaps. "I get killed."

"Kill ye? Nah, don't be bleedin' _obvious_," Moriarty drawls. "I mean, I'm gonna kill ye anyway some day. I don't wanna rush it, doh. I'm savin' it up for su'im special. No-no-no-no-no. If ye don't stop pryin', I'll burn ye. I'll burn de _heart_ ou'i'ye."

"You'll burn the heart what, sorry?"

Moriarty glares. "I'll burn the fuckin' heart ou'i'ye."

"Sorry, I'm not – "

"Ou'i'ye. _Out of ye. _I'll burn the fuckin' _heart _out of ye, did je fuckin' get it dat time, ye little bollix?"

"Oh," Sherlock says softly. "Well, I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."

Jim grins. "But we both know that's not _quite_ true."

Sherlock watches him. Moriarty's grin does not falter. "Well, I'd better fuck off. So nice teh've had a proper chat wi' ye."

His hand rises higher, and Sherlock speaks, voice ringing around them. "What if I was to shoot you – right now?"

"Ah, ask me bollix," Moriarty says. "Yer not gonna fuckin' shoot me, ye twat. I'd shit meself. See ye later, anyway."

"Catch...you...later," Sherlock says slowly, and Moriarty's voice echoes around them in a sing song.

"_No, you fuckin' won't."_

Sherlock stares at the door, gun still raised, waiting for a reappearance. When it doesn't come, he drops to the floor and deposits the gun, rushes to John to unfasten the bomb-covered vest, then runs behind him to tear the jacket and the bombs off at once. He can feel John's chest rising and falling rapidly, hear both their panicked breaths echo.

"Are you alright?" he asks hurriedly, still pulling at the jacket. "Alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," John says, and his voice comes in breathy gasps. "Sherlock. Sh- _Sherlock_."

Sherlock has tugged off the jacket and vest. He bends and skims them away across the floor, as far as they will go, and turns back to John. "Jesus," John breaths. "Oh, Christ. Are _you_ okay?"

"Me? Yeah, I'm fine, I'm fine. Fine," Sherlock says quickly, beginning to pace up and down restlessly, gun in hand as John sinks to the floor, weak and shaking. "That, er ... _thing_ that you, er, that you did; that, um ...," he stutters, clearing his throat,"...you offered to do. That was, um ... good."

And suddenly, there is the sound of the door opening from behind them, and Moriarty's sing song voice returns. "Sorry, boys! I'm so bleedin' changeable!"

John grimaces in disbelief. Sherlock keeps his back to Jim. He stares up into the gallery, searching for the hidden snipers; the lasers on himself and John have begun to grow in number. They rake his body dangerously, threateningly.

"It's a bi' of an ol' weakness wi' me but, to be fair, it is me _only_ weakness," he says softly. "Ye can't go on, lads. Ye just can't. I _would_ try to convince ye but...everything I have teh say has already crossed yer mind!"

Sherlock looks at Moriarty. The bomb-covered vest still lingers between them; he looks to John, _John_,who had been willing to die for him.

John gives him a small nod. _Do what you must_. John, who is still willing to die for him.

"Probably my answer has crossed yours," he says, raising the pistol once more to Moriarty's head, and then letting his arm fall slowly, so that it is aimed at the vest.

He looks into Moriarty's eyes, sees the madness coiled there.

"Ah, Jesus fuckin' Christ, Sherlock, will ye not just fuckin' _die_?" Moriarty says suddenly. "Like, wha' is all dis bollix for? Will ye not just give it over and fuck off?"

"Er – no," Sherlock says uncertainly, narrowed eyes never leaving the madman before him.

"Alright, then, fuck off, ye prick," Moriarty barks, "I don't even care, fuckin' kill yerself, watever, I'll getcha in de end anyway, ye fucking cunt."

And he storms out like a child, leaving John and Sherlock dumbfounded in his wake, hearts pounding and brains utterly fucking muddled to shit.

What a nutbag.


End file.
